


White Lie

by MacaulayClaire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: High School Student Dean Winchester, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Punk Castiel, Tags May Change, snowstorm, well kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-15 04:40:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17522141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacaulayClaire/pseuds/MacaulayClaire
Summary: Dean Winchester, a senior at Washington High in the little mountain town Campdensprings. Everyone knows all about his little brother Sammy. But no one has ever seen him.Dean needs to figure out a lot of things. Whether to aks out Cassie or Lisa. How to tell his dad he wants to go to college.What to do with the weird stranger an unexpected snowstorm dropped into his lap. Not literally. Obviously.Castiel Krushnick just came back from his gap year in Tanzania. He has no rush going back home to his overbearing, overly-ambitious, richer-than-God family.So he hitchhikes from the JFK-airport in New York to Pontiac, Ilinois. It had seemed like a good idea at that moment.When he is rescued from freezing to death by a stranger -and subsequently trapped with him in his shoebox of a house in the middle of nowhere...he kinda panics.When do you tell your handsome rescuer that your name isn't actually Jimmy Novak -and how do you keep that little white lie from snowballing to something much bigger?And how the hell do you survive Vermont in the winter, anyway?





	1. Snowflake no. 1

Knuckles white on the steering wheel -both hands, even, eyes glued to the icy road, Dean almost misses the first big snowflakes throwing themselves from the sky.  
A barely there, side-looped smile and a painful tug in his heart accompany them. 

"Sammy would flip his shit," he mutters.

No one answers. Robert Plant keeps singing about hills and finding the one.

Dean takes his eyes off the road for a second and glances at his bag laying on the bench next to him. He hadn't even bothered zipping it close after Economics had ended. Now, tattered books and loose, dog-eared papers are spilling out of it.  
But he doesn't see his phone. He needs it. Now. Needs to hear his little brothers' annoying voice -and how it breaks at the end of every sentence. It is a shame Dean isn't home -his old home back in Lawrence to tease the little nerd about that more regularly.

Dean huffs and turns back to concentrating on not crashing Baby on the slippery mountain road. 

Dad had warned him not to take her. 

He doesn't last long. Dean takes one hand off the wheel. He pats over the bench. His fingertips bump against cheap plastic. 

"Gotcha."

Triumphantly, his hand closes around the phone. Stupid thing gets lost more often than not anyway.  
He should probably buy a couple more of them, store them everywhere -in baby's dashboard, the kitchen cabinet, bathroom. Then, at least Sammy couldn't throw a bitch fit every time it took Dean a few seconds to locate where the ringing of his phone came from.

Dean fumbles with the phone and shoots a shaky one-handed picture of the increasingly snow-heavy sky, the bare, skeleton-like pine trees grasping for it, black silhouettes, snowflakes throwing themselves against the windshield.

He glances at the cracked, spidery screen and opens the messenger to send the photo to Sammy. The tech-geek had shown him how to do that ages ago.  
It can't be that hard. Even for Dean.

It happens in the blink of an eye.  
The steering wheel slips under his hand, as do the wheels on the road. The phone falls into the feet well. The skeleton trees are right in front of him. A flash of light brown.  
Dean grips the wheel, fists like steel. He turns her back on the street and hits the breaks. Too hard. Can count on the lucky stars that he doesn't dive through the woods and down the cliff for a second time in barely a minute. Baby stutters to a halt. Dean does not let go of his death grip around the steering wheel, his heart racing, mind blank. 

"Son of a bitch," he whispers and releases a pent-up breath. Realization sets in and with it panic fluttering around his stomach.  
"Oh shit. O shit." Dean gets out. He slips and almost falls on his sorry ass in the process. 

He checks on the Impala.  
"I am so sorry, baby," he mutters and trails his fingertips along the black paint. 

"I accept your apology." a deep voice rumbles. Deans second heart attack in the span of five minutes. He whirls around.  
Jet black, rumpled hair. Blue eyes. A man, a boy not that much older than Dean himself is standing there, in the middle of the lonely road. A thin Trenchcoat, light brown. His lips are pale, almost blue. And he holds his wrist as if...

"Oh shit -sorry, damnit. I-I didn't see you, dude. Are you..."  
The stranger doesn't react. His face remains impassive.  
"Did I hit you? I am so -" Dean asks, eyes wide. The blood drains from his face.  
He looks the guy over and can't find any other wounds, no blood. "Let me get you to the-"  
"No."  
"No, I didn't hit you or no to-?"  
"I-it was a c-close miss." trenchcoat guy chatters. He doesn't seem particularly impressed by his near-death experience.  
"Thank Jesus," Dean mutters.  
The stranger squints his eyes in a confused frown.  
"Jesus has nothing to do with this."  
Dean drags his hand across his face. He flinches when his icy hand touches his cheeks.

The snow grey sky is getting darker by the minute.

Dean casts a look around the empty street. Then stares back at the stranger. The nagging in his head intensifies but he can't quite place it. 

The closer Dean looks, the more Trenchcoat guy looks like he is freezing to death. Faint tremors are wracking his body. His gaze is dazed.  
He doesn't make a move to warm himself up. Doesn't even button up his Trenchcoat - not that it would make a difference.  
He just stands there, stares at Dean and holds his wrist, looks like a bird with a broken wing.  
"Let's get you out of the cold before you freeze your balls off," Dean says. He opens the door for him.  
Trenchcoat guy doesn't hesitate and climbs in the Impala.  
Dean gets in as well. Hands on the steering wheel. A deep breath. He fires her up. 

"You got anywhere to go?", Dean asks and cranks the heater up to the maximum level.

"No.," trenchcoat guy says while they are both staring out onto the unfolding snowstorm.

"Good," Dean says. "We wouldn't make it down to the town in that anyway."

The only thing Dean hears from the stranger is his teeth chattering.  
The poor guy is probably in shock.

They drive through the winding and darkening landscape, the street taking them higher and higher into the wooded mountains. 

~

"Who's that?"  
Dean had just opened the front door to their little house and had had almost smacked it in his dad's face.  
"Jesus, Dad!" Dean exclaims. "This?" he looked back at the stranger, huddled in his trenchcoat and still shivering. "This-this is Jimmy."  
At least he had gotten the dudes' name on their way home if not much else.

"C-James", Cas corrects him.  
"Right. Dad -meet James. James-Dad." he gestures between the two men staring at each other with frosty silence. Although with James, he probably was just that -freezing. 

Dad grunts and zips up his jacket.  
"I'm gonna hit the roadhouse," he says. "You take care of your -friend."  
"Yessir." Dean answers. 

John musters Jimmy with cold, calculating eyes - catalogues the metallic earring, the faint traces of eyeliner, the worn-down backpack, the cheapass, sketchy trenchcoat and the deep blue Kashmir scarf that must have cost three times as much. 

It is clear that he doesn't mean taking care but making sure the strangers' long fingers don't go wandering where they don't belong.  
John walks around them and towards his truck, parked on the gravel in front of the cabin. 

"Wait," calls Dean and catches up with his Dad in two long strides. "Dad, you - there's a snowstorm on the way,"  
John doesn't look particularly impressed and unlocks the door.  
"Charlie told us, said it is gonna get real bad." he knows he is rambling his head off. As he tends to do when his Dad doesn't listen to him and looks right through him. "The road is gonna be closed off soon. So, I figured we could, you know, kick back this night, watch Die Hard-"  
"Charlie's the queer one." It isn't a question.  
Dean nods and bits his lips. "So, what do you think-?"  
"Stop rambling, son." His eyes get warmer. An almost-smile flickers on his lips. "I am gonna be back in a minute." The motor roars to life. John looks out of the rolled down window. "Make sure that guy doesn't overstay his welcome. "  
"Yes, sir."  
"He's your responsibility."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Oh, and Dean, don't forget to call your brother. See if he's treated alright."  
John gets the car into reverse. The truck vanishes down the bumpy, small lane that connects the Winchester cabin with the main road.  
"Yes, sir," Dean mumbles, absently, a frown marring his face as he stares to where the backlights vanish between the towering trees. 

A hollow bump startles Dean.  
Jimmy has sunken down on the front steps. His head is leaned back against the wall, exposing the pale column of his throat.  
His eyes are closed.  
Dean packs him under the armpit and drags him back up and into the house.  
"Please don't die on me," Dean mutters.  
He kicks the door shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nothing really happens here -just drama queens being drama queens. :)

Dean has no idea what the fuck to do.

He has parked the still shivering stranger in front of the fireplace in the living room slash entry hall.  
He had fought the wet trenchcoat of off him and had helped him take off his shoes. Jimmy's hands were ice cold and clumsy. And painted with black, chipped nail polish. 

Dean does not want the guy to die of hypothermia.  
Especially with them getting snowed in more and more with every passing minute. And the next doctor half an hour away. In good weather.

"Jimmy, dude," Dean kneels next to him.  
The shine of the fire flickers across his sharp and angular face; lets dark shadows distort it.

"We gotta make sure-. I'm gonna bring you some dry clothes."

Jimmy nods; a jerky motion.  
"Backpack." he rasps.

"Dude," Dean protests. "It's all wet. Did you fall into the pool with it or what?" Jimmy frowns. "Don't answer that."

~

In the end, Dean draws him a bath. 

Dean tells him to yell if he needs anything. 

He sits, leans against the closed bathroom door, Goethe's 'Faust', the book he needs to read for English, in his lap.  
The cold seeps through the bottom of his jeans. Dean strains his ears, to catch any signs of distress through the thin door, and stares at the fading and flaking wallpaper on the opposite wall of the hallway that contains not only the bathroom but also the bedrooms.  
The wallpaper is a painted romantic picture from a snowy mountain top peeking out of a forest.  
It probably is from the same year the damn cabin had been built.

~

They eat dinner in the claustrophobic and dimly lit kitchen. 

Jimmy sits across from him, at the wobbly table for two shoved against the wall (no wallpaper) and under the window.  
Dean had wiped up some pasta -you can't go wrong with that.

He looks out of the window and only sees their washed out reflection.  
Some colour has returned to Jimmy's cheeks.  
He is wearing Deans' ACDC t-shirt. The black fabric contrasts nicely with Jimmy's bronze tan. Not that Dean cares about such girly things. 

"So, where you from?" Dean shoves new pasta into his mouth before he had even finished swallowing. "Can't say I have seen you 'round," He sprays some ketchup and chewed up pasta in Jimmy's direction. "Shorry."

Jimmy picks at the food, grabbing the fork awkwardly in his left hand.  
His right wrist is slightly swollen. 

"New York," he answers. 

Dean waits for him to elaborate. He doesn't.

"So, what were you doing out there, anyway? Out on the road, I mean."  
Sammy would scowl at him for asking such a, possibly insensitive tactic. Dad would remind him of "having a tactic, son.".

Jimmy stabs some pasta with his fork.

In for a penny, in for a pound.  
"Did you-did you walk?" Dean asks, flabbergasted.

"Did you see a car?"

"Jeez, alright, touchy."

They focus back on their meals. Silence chokes them. 

"But..why?" Dean asks. In his mind, Dad just looks disappointed.

Dean holds his breath and stares at Jimmy. Jimmy from New York with smudged eyeliner over his right eyelid.

"I- I apologize for my rude behaviour," the stranger says and pushes his plate away. "It was a lovely meal. Thank you, Dean. But I do not wish to introduce any more than I already have."

Dean stares at him. Can't seem to stop.  
Jimmy stares back. He looks down, a flush high on his cheeks.  
He's halfway through the living room and out of the front door before Deans' brain catches up. Stupid blue eyes. 

"Dude, ' the hell. Where do you think you are going?"

He catches Jimmy at the wrist. 

"I must go." Blue-eyes insists. 

For a horrible, horrible second Dean recognizes it for what it is. He's in a damn soap opera. Friggin hell.  
He lets Jimmy go.  
Jimmy takes his backpack, forgets his trenchcoat, and puts on his boots. 

"Goodbye, Dean."

He walks out of the door.

~~~

Really, Dean is impressed.  
He storms into the kitchen and puts the dishes into the sink.  
He huffs and crosses his arms and waits for Jimmy to come back. Stares at the clock that is wholly unaffected by everything going on in the Winchester household.  
"m' not a friggin housewife," Dean mutters. 

An impressive layer of snow covers the gravel and the forest around the Winchester property.  
The night isn't pitch black. The snow shines and reflects in the dark and gives the world, the clearing containing the cabin and the forest around it an eery otherworldy glow.  
But there isn't enough light to see footsteps on the ground.  
Dean does not have to rely on the great survival skills his dad had taught him and Sammy -their very own scouts' club.  
Jimmy is standing a few feet away. He shuffles along the edge of the clearing. He stops and looks lost. Or as if he had forgotten something.

Snow crunches under his feet as Dean walks up to him.

"I-" Jimmy starts. The syllable hangs in the clear cold air. 

"You're not going anywhere today, pal," Dean says.  
He clears his throat. The smouldering silence makes him highly uncomfortable.  
"Look, I can drive you down or wherever you ought to be, like, tomorrow. If it stops snowing anytime soon."

"Do you think-?"

"No. There is a whole friggin snowstorm unleashing its force, The force, over us. Okay, maybe it won't be that bad. I friggin hope so. But you gotta know. You gotta know that you might be stuck here for a day or two, Jimmy."

Jimmy shifts around so he is facing Dean and cocks his head.  
His eyes are shining feverishly bright. 

"You are very pretty, Dean," he exclaims evenly.

Dean splutters. His face gets as red as a tomato. 

"Dude, you can't...you can't just say something like that to another guy."

"I just did."

Is this guy for real?  
Dean laughs; if a little breathlessly. The tension in his chest loosens.

"Alright, Mr Smarty Pants," Dean says. "Let's go back inside before we become snowmen."

Their hands brush against each other as they walk through the door. 

"Jesus, Jimmy, you're burning up."

"So you do think I am hot." A dazzling, gummy smile breaks out on Jimmy's overheated face.  
Dean chuckles, can't help himself.  
He lays a hand on the dude's forehead. "Goddamnit, Jimmy.  
I'm gonna prepare the guest room for you."

Jimmy stays still, taking up the hallway, his backpack dangling from his fingers.  
Dean looks at him. In this moment, he feels like he is taking care of an overgrown baby, like a less-stubborn Sammy, not a feverish man. 

"I recommend getting ready for bed, Spock. Teeth ain't gonna brush themselves."

 

They don't actually have a guest room in their humble home. But they have Sammy's room.  
Dean forces a Tylenol down Jimmy's throat and tells him he's right down the hall if he needs anything.  
Dean softly closes the door behind himself. The light feeling from before has all but vanished. Doubt and a sense of familiarity are crawling around his chest. 

Sam used to get sick in the winter -and still, that's his favourite time. Nothing serious. Just a cold, stuffed nose and high, whiny noise demanding to be read a bedtime story by Dean.  
There was one winter, Sam must have been seven when it got serious. Mom came home late every day because she took courses at the community college. Dad was off to a military base in New Mexico. "No use dragging you around when it's gonna be the last one, the last time. I am done after that. I promise you, Mary."  
Dean hadn't ever been so scared in his life as when Sammy had hacked his lungs out and the fever wouldn't break. And Mom wouldn't come home. He had tried everything, ice cream, TV, burnt noodle soup to keep Sam from whining, from waking up from a restless sleep and nightmares every other hour. He had hated seeing his baby brother in pain, the sick feeling of helplessness itching on his skin. And when Mary got home, she had rushed Sam straight to the hospital.

Dean shakes himself out of the memory and clenches his jaw. Nothing like that will happen. And it isn't his little brother. He knows he should feel guilty over being so relieved about that.

Dean can't sleep, even if he had wanted to.

So he uses the night to haul already chopped firewood into the house and stacks it neatly next to the fireplace.  
He turns on the ancient television and watches a lady in a green costume and bright red lipstick gesture across the map showing the latest weather with a serious face, babbling soundlessly. Dean sprawls out on the couch and switches to other channels until he finds the first Die Hard movie. He opens one of John's beer cans. His eyes are fixed on the flickering screen but his ears are attuned to the silence outside. He does not wait for the growl of a car engine. He knows better than that. Should know better than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter is gonna be from Jimmy, ergh, Cas' point of view. It is obviously needed. :D


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel drifts in and out of consciousness. 

The cold creeps into his bones. He curls himself together under the blankets.

He is burning up. A wet washcloth gets dragged over his face, a soothing voice murmuring - but it does not help. He is dimly aware of kicking the blanket suffocating him to the end of the narrow bed. He succumbs back into his dreams.

_Soaring heat, a burning in his eyes that had nothing to do with it, the overwhelming urge to never let go. His mother's icy stare and disapproving frown. A kite against a deep blue summer sky. Meg's trademark smirk, her black curls falling over her naked shoulder as she raises her glass towards him. Burning green eyes._

Cas drifts into consciousness. He wants to crawl back to the peaceful darkness but the smell of chicken, no chicken soup, and distant voices prevents him from falling back asleep.

The first thing he notices is that he feels as if he had run a marathon just to be run over by a tractor at the finish line. His tongue is a dry lump in his mouth, his throat scratchy and sore. Cas opens his eyes. A wooden unfamiliar ceiling swims over him in the half-dark of an equally unfamiliar room. His heartbeat speeds up. What is going on?

His bladder insists he should get up.

He taps through a narrow and dark hallway and searches the source of the dim light and the heavenly smell wafting through the corridor. He shouldn't do this, he shouldn't walk right into the arms of whoever got him here. Who knows what happened.

"No, Dad, I'm telling you it's impossible to get through the snow. ...Yeah, still running. ...Got it. Yes. ...Yes. Don't...just stay in town. Tell Ellen not to worry. ...No, we have enough food for a few days at least, you know tha-, Dad!,"

Cas edges closer to the opened door at the end of the hallway. He tries to do so without making a sound. But his legs are weak like jelly and the wooden floor creaks with every stumbling step. No sound comes from the male calling his Dad- or not. Maybe 'Dad' is just a code name or -.

Cas starts to worry. His heart stops as the male starts speaking again, voice even lower than before.

"I understand. Yes, sir." Cas lays his ear against the wooden door. "No. No, I am sorry but I don't want to get rid of -"

Cas loses his balance and stumbles against the door and into the room.

"Jimmy!" the male says, drops the phone and helps him get up from where Cas crashed on the floor. Unreliable legs.

Cas steps back from the boy that apparently is supposed to get rid of him, reeling in confusion. Cas frowns at his opponent. He seems to be around his age and is wearing a washed out shirt with some kind of overly dramatic spaceship and obnoxious yellow letters spelling "May the force be with you!!". Cas was not aware that murderers wore such childish t-shirts, but then his mother had always called him overly judgemental.

The boy steps closer and raises his hand. Cas takes a step back. Being defenceless, he glares at the stranger and doesn't let his eyes waver from him for a second to anticipate every move he might make.

"Sorry, Dude." Green-eyes lets his hand sink and blushes. "You still feeling hot 'n feverish?"

Cas squints at him. What are his intentions?

The boys' eyes widen. "No intentions, I swear. Just that you don't die on me, maybe. Crap, I almost forgot. " He scurries away and towards another open door from where the heavenly smell comes.

The boy reappears with a steaming bowl of soup in his hands.  
"Here you go, Jimmy." He guides Cas to the worn down red sofa standing in the middle of the room, facing a shelve with a tv on it. He puts the soup down.

Why does he think his name is Jimmy?  
The boy sits down on the couch as well but lets enough space between them to not make it awkward. He shifts so he is facing Cas. The corners of his mouth twitch and his green eyes twinkle with mirth - as if he knows something that Cas does not. As if this knowledge amuses him. A thousand questions race through Cas' mind. His stomach is empty and he does not want to go to the bathroom in fear of having the soup poisoned or anything. Cas resents the nagging voice in his head telling him the boy could have already poisoned it.

"How late is it?" Only dim grey light shines through the tiny windows.  
"Like, around three, I think," he answers. "You obviously needed that rest. Dude, for real, how are you feeling? I mean, it looked really bad for a while back there and I can't take you to a doctor, so."  
Cas frowns. Of course, they can't take him to a doctor. They can't risk him escaping. This only manifests his suspicion. Maybe he should just flee..go to the bathroom, climb out of the window, walk away. This plan sounds oddly familiar. He shakes the feeling. It is a good idea. He eyes the soup. Later.

"Who is the man you were on the phone with?" Cas eyes widen. He shouldn't have let the cute boy know he had listened to the conversation. "I apologize," he says, stiffly, and stands up.

Confusion flits across the freckled face. "What? No. Dude, sit down. Relax." He tries to drag Cas back down.  
Cas shakes his hand away.  
"Do not.." Cas takes a deep breath but anger is rising in his throat. And pretty boy still plays dumb with that kicked-puppy look on his face.  
"Jimmy, -"  
Words bubble out of his throat. "Why do you insist on calling me Jimmy? I do not understand what's.."

"Because it's your name, buddy. You told me so. Come on. And-and that was my dad. On the phone, I mean. The grumpy old man you met yesterday? Ring any bells? He was just...worried, I guess."

Cas just stares at him with a blank look.  
The guy stares back. "Did you get a hit over the head or what?"  
Cas opens his mouth. Memories of yesterday are rushing back. They are all a little hazy and feverish and Cas' brain is too exhausted to sort them, make sense of them.

"Don't answer that. It's the fever, obviously. I mean, you do look better but... . Fuck, you get real scary and disoriented when you're ill, you know that?" The boy rises as well. His eyebrows are knitted together. "Just hope it isn't frying your brain, damnit." he murmurs and then, louder: "Let's tuck you right back in, Jimmy."

"I do not wish to go back to bed. I feel fine." What a strange method to keep him here. He probably wants to 'get rid' of Cas when he is sleeping.

"Sure you do." the boy snorts. For a moment, it seems as if he wants to force him to go to bed. His shoulders sink and the grin goes out. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Shoulda probably be politer and all that. Not treat you like my little brother." Wide eyes peer at Castiel. "Not, not that I think of you as a little brother. No! I mean..fuck, that sounded way more creepy than it was meant." The guy's face is blazing red, making the faint freckles pop out.  
Cas can't help but relax a little, a smile tucking at his lips.

He looks as if he wants the earth to swallow him whole.

"Damnit. Can we start over?" he asks.

Cas halts. This is his chance to come clean, to finally let that whole Jimmy-inconvenience behind them.  
"Of course," he says, throwing caution into the wind, and the guy beams.

"Great. I am Dean Winchester, and you are?" he holds his hand out.

The roof over their head creaks. They both hold their breath and look up. A splintering crash and a muffled thumb come from right outside.  
"Son of a bitch." Dean rounds the sofa and crosses the room in large steps, vanishing in a short hallway. Cas follows him. Dean rips the door open.  
They are blinded by white and a freezing surge of air. But something is wrong. Cas looks at a wooden wall, right in front of him. Dean steps out and curses as his feet sink into snow so he steps back into the house.

"Son of a bitch." he says again. "Sam and I built it over the entrance last summer. fucking damnit."

Dean puts on heavy boots and storms out, can barely take two steps before he is stopped.

Once, meaning a few seconds ago, it may have been two wooden poles supporting a roof protecting the area in front of the house - maybe to unlock the door without getting drenched on rainy days. But the roof came down. Cas squints at the sight in front of him.

Dean groans. "The..the poles must have given out."

"But..how?" Cas asks and looks at the now slanted, diagonal board, still attached to the house, like a tent, well, half a tent, Cas muses.

Dean steps to the side and out from under their makeshift tent.

"Well, snow can get really heavy." his lips are thin. "The snow must have glid from the slope of the houses' roof and onto the canopy. Fucking Damnit." Dean gets to work. "Stupid."

"I'll help you," Cas says.

Dean looks up from where he is crouching, looking at where the poles are halfway trapped between roof and ground.

"No way." He stands up and ushers him back into the house. Cas can see the goosebumps on his bare arms. "Go eat your soup and maybe take a shower. Because Dude, you've seen better days."

Cas hums. He is more confused than ever. It does not seem as if Dean wants to harm him in any way. He made him soup because he is ill. Dean seems...nice, even. A little brash, a little foul-mouthed but exceptionally caring to a stranger as well. But Cas cannot forget the phone call he overheard either.

"I will. Thank you, Dean."

Dean smiles, lopsided as he shrugs into his parka. "Well bathroom's the first door left, towels are in the cabinet yadda yadda. Oh, let the water in the sink running."

"Good luck, Dean. Call, if you need my assistance."

"Will do." Deans smile betrays his words. "You can tell me a little bit more about New York later, Jimmy. Always wanted to go there." He lifts two fingers as a salut and then the door closes behind him, leaving Cas to stare at his lukewarm soup.


End file.
